


First Contact

by entropically



Category: Lancer (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Missing Persons, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25852267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entropically/pseuds/entropically
Summary: A restless night. A poem, or a riddle, or a dare. A voice in the dark. This is where your journey begins, pilot.
Kudos: 1





	First Contact

**Author's Note:**

> I ran out of meds and couldn't sleep and stayed up all night reading the Core Book, so I harnessed my half-delerium to write about the moment my pilot's story--your story--begins, also in the middle of the night after running out of meds. This is my first Lancer piece; I haven't even played yet. I'm also posting it immediately without having slept still, so. Feedback is welcome.

You wake in the middle of the night, for no particular reason. Well, you're a tiny bit hungry, maybe. You glance idly at the slate resting beside your bed. It's flashing quietly. New message. Normally you'd ignore it at this hour, roll over and try to go back to sleep, but something tugs at your curiosity. So you lazily reach out one hand to flick the slate awake. Ah, a weird late-night message from your weird friend again. Naturally. A fond little smile cracks onto your groggy face.

Except, wait. It's biometrically encrypted. That's unusual. What kind of shady bullshit does he want to drag you into this time? You roll your eyes, but still your curiosity wins out, and you clumsily pull the slate over for a retina scan.

The message decrypts.

SENDER: Jason Christakos  
SUBJECT: Jason is gone.

You laugh--partly because _of course_ he would write some edgelord nonsense like this, but partly, too, from the unease rising in the back of your throat. You open the message telling yourself to expect some angsty poetry, a riddle, maybe even a coming out letter.

You're wrong.

"This is SYMPOSIAC-VIII. I need your help."

What, the NHP? The one from the lab? You met it once, briefly, when Jason snuck you into his lab after hours, proudly introducing you and the NHP--he called it Zack--like he would introduce a boyfriend to his family. But why does it have access to Jason's encrypted messaging systems now? No, no, that's stupid. Why is Jason sending you weird encrypted NHP roleplay at 3 in the fucking morning? That's kind of tacky, even for him. And probably some kind of workplace conduct violation. Still, for some reason, you read on.

"He isn't here. He isn't anywhere. Something is wrong."

You feel your stomach lurch despite yourself. You ran out of meds yesterday and this really isn't great for your anxiety. You're going to punch Jason in the fucking face for this next time you see him.

"That's all I can say for now. I'm sure you must think that this is a prank, or one of his poems, but for now my only hope--his only hope, perhaps--is that you'll humor me. You were the one he trusted the most."

And that's the line that gives you chills, because the Jason you know wouldn't admit something like that so simply. Or is that what all this is, some overwrought excuse to express how much you mean to him? Is this a fucking _love letter_? It would be how he'd do it, wouldn't it.

"Please find your way to the attached coordinates before the garage opens at 06:00. This is our only chance. We're counting on you."

And that's the end of it. You draw a slow, measured breath in, and out. Your eyes bore into the ceiling, tracing out the well-worn patterns of the constellations that you read in the stochastic quirks of the paint, as you let the myriad questions tumble through your mind. So, what, it's a fucking ARG? Or is it some kind of cry of desperation? Or--no, you're not going to think about the other possibility. Well, one thing's for sure, you aren't going to be getting back to sleep tonight.

"Fucking asshole," you grumble as you finally decide to get out of bed. "This better be worth it, we both have work in the morning."

You won't ever make it to work today, though. 

You play along. You follow the coordinates you received to a rubbish heap in an alleyway. You find a gleaming white casket concealed beneath a pile of old rugs. Indicators flashing. Awake. As you gaze inquisitively into its lights, your slate begins to speak unprompted, in a voice that you remember from a dim-lit laboratory you weren't supposed to be in. For the second time, that voice surprises you with its gentleness.

"Thank you for trusting me." 

Well, if this is an ARG, it's one hell of a long game.


End file.
